


Brothers in Blood

by IncognitoMe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic, The King in The North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-27 09:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoMe/pseuds/IncognitoMe
Summary: "A dark-eyed youth, pale and fierce, sliced three brances off the weirwood and shaped them into arrows."Brandon Stark, A Dance with DragonsWhat if the King Who Knelt never knelt?





	1. Chapter 1

The king was being drowned in a cacophony of voices.

“My king, this is folly, let's return to the Moat.”

“Their host is too large, we should surrender.”

“If we entrench ourselves here, they'll have to ford the river to reach us.”

“We should charge; their army is not united.”

“Discord can be sown in the enemy camp. They have all warred one another, not two years past.”

“Let them come to us. See how their beasts handle a real winter.”

“We cannot meet their fiery fury. Disperse and retreat, my king.”

“My king, let the Dornish have them. What do we care for all these southerners and their blasted Seven?”

“The Vale has closed their passes. The Bloody Gate is nothing to the Moat.”

“No food from the Reach will come in winter, we must fight or join them.”

“My king, I stand with you. Whatever you choose.”

“Let me lead the van. They may have one half up on us, but each of my warriors is worth ten of ‘em.”

Breath in. Breath out. Chatter chatter chatter. Honor. Strength. Victory. Numbers. Dragons.

“ENOUGH! Cease your squabbling. Bolton. Umber. Reed. Karstark. Manderly. Mormont. Brother. The rest of you, out.”

Silence, finally. All the rabble left, save for his most powerful and most trusted. King Torrhen Stark loomed above the map in his command tent, wooden blocks showing the diverse banners arrayed in front of him.

“Tell me, my lords. What can you do for me if I choose to fight? Would you advise to stand our ground, retreat or surrender?”

Karlon Karstark shuffled on his feet. Harkon Umber sported a ferocious snarl, his one eye promising death and savagery. Bert Bolton remained as ever, enigmatically quiet. Roald Reed was much the same, but where Bolton's eyes hid truth and treachery, his friend could always be counted on. Walter Manderly, aged and bloated, jovially masked his cunning with his girth and his dimples. Freya Mormont, his brother’s cousin, the insolent wench, merely shot him a salacious smirk. Brandon Snow, his brother, simply met his gaze, his dark eyes a mirror to his own, burning like ice.

The chained giant spoke first. He did not surprise.

“My boys will hold back all the man they throw at us. It’s the smarter fight on our shore. But if you ask it of me, I will secure you the ford.”

The skinless man almost seemed to look at Umber with emotion. Contempt. His answer did not come unexpected.

“You know, I even believe you, One-Eye. But they'll just send their dragons and all we can do is mourn your ashes. I say we bleed them. At the Neck, at the Moat, on the plains, from our keep. We bleed them dry.”

The floating merman nodded along. Bolton and him did not see eye to eye, except in the war room. His reply was a pleasant surprise.

“Bolton speaks true. I abhor agreeing with him, but we will not win against the flying lizards in a second Field of Fire. Or Ford on Fire. I spied many a banner from the Reach, but no Gardeners. The Manderlys still have quiet friends in the south, and none but the Riverlords are happily united by the foreigners. If the dragons fall, the army set against us will turn on itself.”

The swamp hunter pondered at that. The she-bear gently stroked the handle of her spiked mace, gentle as a lover's touch. Brandon started grinning, his smile a vicious and promising blood. Still, they remained quiet. All eyes were on Karstark. The man had stopped trembling, but his unsure smile did not speak of confidence. He only spoke when the stare of his liege became too unbearable.

“My king. My lands had poor harvests this summer. I cannot feed my people through the winter without trade from the south. Such years will come for all of us. You are my king, now and always. But my true council is to join the south before they leave us in the dust. Use our position here to negotiate.”

Karlon Karstark stood straighter when he finished. It was sound council, even if it risked Torrhen's ire. A man of courage. None sneered. Harkon rubbed his eyepatch, as he did often when Karlon took over his thoughts. Torrhen gave him a slow nod.

Freya Mormont squared her feet and crossed her arms. It pushed up her teats magnificently, Torrhen noted. Freya noted that he noted. Another salacious smirk, coupled with a wink. Damn woman. Her words were the same as in most sessions.

“House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Command us, King of Winter.”

All in attendance stood straight, echoing ‚Command us'. Blasted bastards. Torrhen couldn’t suppress a grim smile, like always.  
His friend Roald spoke up, though still quiet. The lizard lion lisped a little. It did not take away from how much he terrified all who knew him.

“My men can kill any in the enemy's camp for you, except the dragons and their bonded. The creatures would know.”

Torrhen did not get time to think on that. Besides him, Brandon chuckled. Then he laughed. Then he wheezed, throaty gasps escaping.

“Brother. I will kill your dragons. Give me the night.”

All stared at him. They had turned and looked as he laughed, of course, but now they stared. Torrhen did not need to think. His brother had spoken. He trusted him, unquestionably. He turned to his subjects.

“Roald, Freya. If you please. My lords, give me a quarter candle to listen to my brother’s proposal.”

When the other four had left Brandon retrieved his bow from the tent wall, wrapped in oiled furs. As he uncovered his weapons, Torrhen saw three arrows strapped to the weirwood longbow's handle, longer than the bow itself. Bow and arrows were white as the snow, carved with red runes and crying eyes all over. 

Beside him, Roald sucked in a lungful of air. Stumbling past him, the crannogman took an arrow from his brother and inspected it reverently. Torrhen tried to read the inscriptions, but as he focused on the runes they became blurry and seemed to swim through the wood, tangling and winding and twisting into intelligible scrabble.

“How did you get your hands on these?” Roald's voice sounded husky, almost hoarse.

“I crafted them. Three cuttings from the Winterfell heart tree, cut in the snowfall, bathed in the springs, carved under the gods' eyes.”

Roald looked at Brandon with the same shine to his eyes as he had for the arrows. He looked down on the arrow, tracing his fingers across it. When he whispered, it did not seem as if he was addressing the people in his tent but the wood in front of him.

“Inspired work. Must have been touched. Such strong interference… a reaction to the magic fire? No, they have been quiet too long. Are we headed for the second coming? What else awakened?“

It was more a murmur than proper speech, but the words still left Torrhen shivering. He wordlessly held out a hand to his brother, who pressed another of the arrows in it. It was cold to the touch, not like dead wood, but like a carved piece of lake ice. Torrhen traced the runes trying to read with his fingers. He could not quiet grasp the words on his first try and his eyes still seemed to fail him. He felt the arrow once more, and though he again could not grasp the meaning, he felt that the runes themselves had changed.

His hands did not tremble as he held out the arrow for Brandon to take back. His eyes were on Roald whose fingers were dancing up and down the carved spell in his hands. He was startled from his reverie as Torrhen addressed him

“Roald. Can it be done?”

“Yes, my king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeell. Stuck on a train and I've had this in my head for a while.  
Written from my phone, my other docs were on the laptop.  
So I just thought, why not.  
Tell me what you think


	2. Chapter 2

Arstan Swann once more tried to strike for his neck and Orys once more dodged the blow leisurely. Sparring with his lords always carried the risk of death for him, it was no secret they still loathed him. However, they respected strength and Orys was strong. A menace with a mace, as they were reminded of daily in the sparring field. The Last Storm had not left them positively inclined towards him. Neither had the marriage his king had forced on Argella Durrandon and the end of House Durrandon through the children she was going to bear him.

Dune Connington stepped up next, his war hammer gripped in both hands. These men would not assassinate him, they were too proud for that. No, if he died to them, it was going to be an accident at the training yard. Only shows of strength and dragons as back up kept the men in line. A spoke of the stubbornness of the Stormlanders that only four minor lords of knightly houses had come around to befriend him after almost two years together fighting in Aegon’s war.

Connington did not take long to best. He knew how to use the momentum of his swings to his advantage, true, but Orys was swift enough to avoid even glancing blows long enough to counter in the end. As well he should, even a glancing blow would leave him vulnerable enough to succumb to the onslaught of his vassals. Solomon Tarth stepped up to try his hand, gripping his morning star tightly.

Before their little bout could begin Visenya walked into the yard, Dark Sister as ever strapped to her back. She called out to him, and not even the fierce Stormlords dared to block her path as she stepped towards Orys and his adversary.

“Orys. A missive has come from the Northern camp for a parley before we fight. Aegon is calling his council. Rhaenys is fetching Tully, a runner has been sent for Triston and Crispian. Let’s go.”

Orys clipped his mace to his belt and strode over without another word. He could feel Solomon Tarth’s look boring itself into his shoulders and the murderous gazes of his leal subjects around him. He would break them, as soon as this war was over. They were making him furious.

Aegon’s tent was the warmed by a large brazier, a welcome change against the wet fog that clouded their camp, risen from the banks of the Trident. His king stood to at the far end from the entrance, Edwyn Tully already inside as well. Rhaenys clung to her husband as Orys stepped up to take his stand to his right. Visenya came to a stop once Rhaenys was between her and her husband. Three siblings, duty, pride, love. How Orys yearned to truly stand among them.

Triston Massey and Crispian Celtigar soon joined them. It was these meetings that Orys missed Daemon the most. The old Velaryon had been one of the few to truly care for him and show it openly. No scorn, no dutiful distance. A thought best not to linger on. Aegon addressed them soon enough and Orys could focus instead on what he said.

“King Torrhen offers parley at the ford. Three people from each camp, meeting when the sun hits its peak. They have offered to provide bread and salt for the talks. I am inclined to either meet with them or ambush them. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

Aegon spoke to them all, even if his eyes focused on Edwyn Tully. The fresh Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had the most contact with the North after all. The trout kept up his typical thoughtful mien and answered after a second of contemplation, though Orys saw his facial muscles twitch at the name of the Northern king.

“My king, the savages hold to the laws of the First Men. They have offered guest right; they will hold to it. If you accept it to lay an ambush, their men will never bow to you. Talk with him, he will either bow to you or we will make him do so. King Torrhen has been much beloved since he took his seat as King of Winter nine years ago, he is known to put the needs of his subjects above all else.”

Orys recognized it, that false bravado. Edwyn Tully was afraid of Torrhen Stark. Triston and Crispian had nothing to add, they’d had no contact with the North during their tenure as lords. Still, neither looked confident. Visenya rarely spoke during their meetings, and never against Aegon. She kept her council for when they were more private and Orys felt always thankful that he was not amongst those excluded. Rhaenys, Orys knew, cared not one whit for either these meetings or the war in general. It was up to as principle tactical advisor of the army to put his finger to the scales, as he still saw Aegon contemplating on what to do.

“My king. I have seen their army and I am of the opinion negotiation is the superior option. True, we outnumber them with half a man more to each of theirs, but four fifths of our army are unwilling supporters of your cause, having been your enemy not two years past. The Northmen are reported as fierce warriors and they stand united. Our men could break should they charge regardless of the dragons, maybe turn on us.”

“Orys, I am aware of that. That is why we deployed the camp as is.”

Aegon’s answer did sit ill with Orys. True, their dragons were protected, their camp making up a ring around their most powerful weapons. Aegon and Orys had been cruel in partitioning their men. The northern quarter was made up of lords of the Reach, the western of Westerlanders and the eastern one of the still rebellious Stormlords. The loyal Stormlords from Massey’s Hook and the supportive Riverlords made up the southern part of the ring, furthest from the Northern forces. 

The tactical line thought was that, in case of heavy fighting on the frontlines and its possible collapse, the forces of the Reach could be burned along with their Northern enemy. The Houses fighting for the succession of the Gardeners had been furious to see a House of stewards elevated above them. 

Florent, Peake and Oakheart would have rebelled right there if the Field of Fire had been more than a year past. The only House they were more set against then Tyrell as Paramounts and Lords of Highgarden had been House Hightower as they failed to answer the call of their dead liege. However, that fury was more of an extension of their outrage at the meddling of the faith in matters of state. A little culling would remind them of their station in Aegon’s opinion.

Visenya had been arguing that it would have been a smarter move to install the Velaryons as Paramounts of the Reach and Orys had agreed with her then. The current solution left the most populous kingdom of Westeros stewing in discontent. All that only because Aegon had been pleased that for the first time since he started his conquest he had been welcomed into a major castle with the honors befitting of a king. Orys knew that generations of conflict would come from the folly of Aegon’s vanity.

“Who amongst us should accompany you?” Triston asked. He did not seem eager.

“My knowledge of those savages can prove useful at the talks,” said Tully. Orys knew a front when he saw one, and the trout was putting up a hell of one.

“I will come if you ask me to but I don’t think I would serve you best in that case.” Celtigar all but declined.

“I don’t really care about those talks.” Rhaenys was just her usual self.

Neither Orys nor Visenya offered their opinions. Orys himself did not really have one on the subject, Edwyn seemed a fine choice to him. On the other hand, Visenya did signal to Aegon with her hands that there was something she wanted to tell him before he made his decision. Massey, Celtigar and Tully were asked to wait outside for a second and Visenya spoke as soon as the tent flap closed behind them.

“Brother, sending Tully would be an insult to the Stark king. He can’t keep himself from referring to the Northmen as savages. He might be an able politician but he is a soldier and general first. I don’t believe his mask would hold. His mask did not hold hear, and as much as he tried to project disdain, fear was the stronger emotion of his. Take me and Orys.”

“Sister, I’ll take you as my advisor, but what does Orys offer for the talks? Edwyn could see it as an insult.” 

Orys knew Aegon did not really care whether he offended the trout. Aegon cared about little. The needle towards him, however, was as always intentional.

“Orys knows more about our troops than Tully. He has the same standing as a Lord Paramount. Just tell Edwyn that you want to leave a capable commander behind who is loyal to you and whose subjects listen to his commands without question. That will more than placate him.” 

The proper queen sent him a small apologetic look as she spoke but Orys knew this was the way to convince Aegon. The queen’s brother-husband ate it up, he did not care that Edwyn was apparently scared shitless of the wolf king. He turned to Orys with an almost smile, only betrayed by the disdain in his deep purple eyes.

“Splendid. You and Orys will accompany me. Do tell, Orys, have you still not tamed your men nor your wife as my Visenya implied?”

A wound that Aegon loved to poke. As if Argella could forgive so easily. Her father dead by his hands. Her people betraying and shaming her in front of him for their survival. Forced to wed by his true-born brother, the shame of his bastardy forced on her. Oh, how she loathed him. He had tried to be tender. Shielded her. Soothed her. It helped not. 

He had wedded her despite her silence and he had bedded her despite her scratches and her tears. Visenya’s bards may now speak of budding romance, tenderness and love. But that wasn’t the truth, nor did he care much about it.He did not want her love above all. He wanted her status, and his brother gave it to him. He loved Aegon for that, even as he hated him for almost everything else.

“Not all of us, brother, are blessed with one wife who loves us so.”

That shut Aegon up. Orys did not need to look past his slights, sometimes he needed to remind his king that the fury was his. Always had been, even if the Durrandons laid claim to it. Argilac had been arrogant in assuming he was the sole man with rights to it.

Aegon’s jaw clenched and for a second Orys thought he would strike him. He didn’t. Visenya had an almost sardonic smile on her face. Duty. Aegon was not the sibling to be bound by something so trivial. Not when the world was to fall at his feet and prostate itself. His king stepped up close enough towards Orys that he could feel his breath on tickling his eye balls as he hissed at him.

“You are not my brother. You are the son of an insignificant Myrmen pleasure slave. My father was not one to beget bastards. I am not one to beget bastards. Be thankful for the blessing you received, to be a footnote in the legend I am shaping. In a thousand years they will sing of me still and my legacy will be spotless. Call me brother again and it will be the last time you use your tongue.”

Then his king strode past him, exiting the tent. The same threat had been issued before. Orys knew which promises of Aegon rang hollow, so he once again was not afraid in the slightest. It was moments like these that Orys was glad of who his mother was, that she wasn’t a close relative of his father. Would he have Aegon’s delusions if he were his trueborn brother? But then again, he had not wished to be born of that womb since he heard Valaena Velaryon had his mother killed out of spite.

His sister stepped up to him, her hand grabbing his elbow, supportive and soothing. Both of them, forced to love and hate their king. For all that Aegon styled himself king and for all that his enemies and subjects bought his lies, there stood the true ruler of his realms before Orys. Dutiful and competent, the lords of the realms would tear Aegon apart without her, dragons or not. They would not stand for him if under his reign they couldn’t prosper. Being an accomplished mass murderer was way less of a deterrent if people were to suffer his rule and not Visenya’s.

“You know I will need your advice on matters military, brother. Assess their king for me, assess their commander for me. Stand with me across from Torrhen Stark and tell me whether we should have them clean out the Reach for us or let the dragons loose if we have to fight him.”

Visenya knew what counted. A good commander Edwyn may be, but he was a Riverlord with all the blinders that entailed. Leave him to defend a keep, leave him to besiege a keep. Give him Rivermen soldiers. Don’t send him into a pitched field battle, either way, in command of forces that he doesn’t understand and can’t use. Visenya knew. Orys did as always. He complied.

“Nya, I’ll stand by your side. I know you, though, you already got information on our enemies, don’t you? Tell me what you know.”

Orys took a seat at the map table, the battlements laid out to scale. None of the Reach, Wester- or Stormland lords had been able to tell him anything of worth about the reclusive and elusive Northmen. Visenya picked a carved wolf from the pieces arrayed on the northern shore before she spoke.

“There forces consist of 23.000 infantry and 7.000 cavalry, mostly of a type called heavy horse. A contingent of 1.000 of the horse are knights, though, the main contribution of House Manderly. It’s a matter of faith, expect their horse to be as formidable as any knight and you might have an approximation of their forces. They are rumored to have a stealth battalion consisting of crannogmen, there was little information about them. The rumors abound in camp about berserk savages, skinchangers, wolf riders and workers of fel magic.”

“Can you estimate whether these marsh warriors will be a threat? I will leave the magic to you in any case, but even shadow binders can’t influence large scale battles well and I doubt our enemies are in league with anything more sinister. The dragons are the perfect counter for spells anyways. The wolf riders should be a rumor, wolves aren’t large enough and there is no way they could hold wolves and horses in close proximity.”

Orys had fought magic with the Second Sons enough in Essos. None had been used in Westeros, but then it was often tied to faith or the land and Westeros was not the land of the Andals to work their own magic. Stealth battalions were always a threat, especially to the commanders. Aegon might need an extra escort. Visenya answered him in turn, even as she eyed him warily for a second as he spoke of wolves.

“There is little known about any of the Northern forces. The only fights Northern forces have been used in extensively happened ages ago. There are Ironborn raids, but that cannot be compared of course. Verified accounts exist of Northern atrocities in their fights in Andalos and in the War Across the Water with the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale, but both involved the ferrying of large forces across the seas. We are uncertain what it is they can field here.”

There was a short lull in her speech before Visenya continued.

“The Riverlords are scared of the Northmen, as are the others. The North is different, other. They don’t think like our forces do. They follow different gods; they have different priorities. Little is certain. House Stark is more revered by their people than the other kings could have claimed from their subjects.”

All relevant information, it did not paint a pretty picture of what would happen if their forces met with the Northern host. Still, it left out important questions, so Orys asked. 

“This tells us little of the fighting experience of their men or the capability of their commander. What do you know of Torrhen Stark and his advisors?”

Visenya’s answers only left his expectations all the bleaker.

“The Northmen are usually in constant conflict with Ironborn to the west and wildlings to the north. Their winters make harsh men out of them and force them to work together. All of them are said to learn hunting for the longer cold periods. Still, we might be lucky not to find many veteran hunters among them. The old often sacrifice themselves to the cold and the night during winter up there. We don’t know how much of a difference that makes to their forces though.”

Oh gods damn. Iron rain from a force of trained hunters? Their rabble would disintegrate where they stood. They could never bring the fight to them with their foot. Dragon fire might be their only solution. If Aegon would still send the Reach infantry out to weaken their Houses? Then it came to Orys, the most pertinent question of all. A possible death spell to their conquest. He picked one of the figures representing the Tarly forces, rubbing it between his finger before he bluntly asked Visenya his question.

“Can arrows fired in massed formation bring down a dragon?”

Visenya blinked. Visenya frowned. Visenya suppressed a violent shudder, from the looks of it, before she finally answered.

“Yes. They can. There are records of the Rhoynish Wars, even if more dragons fell to ballistae. Balerion is probably too tough and big to be brought down by arrows alone but Meraxes and Vhagar are probably at risk if it comes to such a confrontation.”

“Can Rhaenys be convinced not to ride her dragon for a few days?”

Despite the seriousness of the question, Orys could not surprise a smile. Even Visenya had to giggle a little, only interrupted by a few snorts in between. She did not laugh often, and Orys was sad for it. She was his best friend and her lot in life often left her little to be happy about. When she’d calmed down she replied.

“Our sister will, if she understands Meraxes might be in danger this time around. I swear, Orys, the girl cuddles her dragon too much. Can you believe it, a flying lizard the size of a farmer’s cabin, and it acts like a spoiled cat under her hands. She does not see Meraxes as a tool and sometimes I believe she loves it more than Aegon.”

Visenya smoothed through her hair once with her hand, the strands had come loose as the giggling fit had shaken her thoroughly. Back to business it was, and so she spoke.

“The King of Winter and his commanders have been in charge of the North for years now, so we can expect competent and experienced leaders. The incompetent are said to die quickly in the North, sadly for us. And from the rumors and information we have, Torrhen Stark is anything but incompetent. Rather impressive, actually.”

“How so?” 

Orys could not help but ask. His big sister was rarely impressed.

“There is little known about his father. One of the many Brandon Starks, a passable king and administrator, but the man was very private. Then he died within days of Torrhen reaching his majority and the young king took his throne nine years past now. Since then, Ironborn raids have increased in the Westerlands and the Reach. They must have found a worse welcome up North.”

Visenya’s words did not bode well, not at all. Turning the Ironborn away in nine years, even as they held the Riverlands. That did not make sense, none at all. He did not like this. 

“How come Harren the Black did not start a campaign against the North, then?”

Visenya answered his question, and Orys liked it all less and less.

“The last time the Ironborn sent a proper expeditionary force north instead of merely dispatching singular raiders along the coast was eleven years ago. Harren’s brother took twenty long boats up the Green Fork. You remember how we feared the Commander of the Night’s Watch would come down with his ten thousand oath brothers, to get revenge for his one blood brother?

Back then we chalked it up to the sanctity of his oath that he did not leave his icy prison. There’s another explanation. Hagen Hoare and his 4.000 men never returned, but 1.000 of Ironborn joined the black brothers from his host the same year he left and he rose to the seat of Lord Commander within nine years. He’s a reputed general, but he was crushed by a 14-year-old Torrhen in the Neck with only the resident crannogmen to aid him. No one knows why the pup went instead of the old wolf, but since he took the throne, the Ironborn steer clear of his waters.”

Well.

Fuck.

What was Orys supposed to say to that?

“The same crannogmen that make up that mystery stealth troop of his?”

The only question that mattered. Focus on the task at hand.

“Yes. The same ones. Not a single soul returned south again. I really hope the dragons scare him. That is the other thing admirable about him. He’s almost worshipped by his smallfolk for the lack of Ironborn raids, but they love him for providing them with food. The North has not prospered as much in generations and he’s said to put the needs of his subject above all else. That might be reason enough for him to submit.”

Orys could hear in Visenya’s tone. True respect. Few had earned that yet, less since they started their war of conquest. Sharra Arryn, Meria Martell, Harlen Tyrell and Loren Lannister. None else. The implication was lost on him, however. It did obviously not concern military matters.

“Why would he submit to us for the love of his small folk? You’re not talking about the 30.000 men on the other side of the river, one does not amass an army without accepting they could lose it.”

Even though Orys said that he knew it wasn’t true in every case. His brother could not fathom losing. Hence his tantrum after Gulltown, forcing Visenya to take matters into her own hands.

“It’s about the economics of keeping his people fed”, replied Visenya, “We offer better trade with the Reach, and with the Riverlands after they have finished recovering. His population is thriving under his leadership. We offer better living and better protection for them. With Harren and all his close kin dead, the claimants to the Seastone Chair will try to establish themselves in the succession crisis on the Iron Islands. A show of force, to prove they are worthy of their position. We have set the North up to be raided when we burned Harrenhal. With dragons on his side Torrhen will not have to worry about that. If he fights us here his troops will either be dead or too depleted to repel the pirates coming for the North.”

“Was that one of our goals when we let the dragons loose back then?” Orys asked in awe. Neatly tying up their objectives, this sounded like a plan Visenya could have concocted.

“No”, his sister answered, though thoughtful. “Aegon was simply enraged by Harren. I advocated for it based on the fact that we needed to bind the Riverlords tighter. Fear of our dragons served well for that. We were aware of increased raiding down the Westerlands and the Reach for some time, but we thought the cause was that the Ironborn had replenished their forces and expanded after pacifying the conquered Riverlands for three generations.”

“The King of Winter might be rather wroth with us in that case, don’t you think? In a way, we are the reason the Ironborn will return to his shores.”

Orys could not hide a trace of mirth as he spoke. As if. Visenya picked up on his gallows humor with a chuckle.

“Angry at us, brother, for delivering the Ironborn to his shores? Perish the thought! I’d be highly surprised if he spared that any consideration after we boldly declared war on him when our only territory were some rocks in the Narrow Sea. His line is older than Valyria, the audacity.”

Orys laughter grew and grew as his sister spoke, her final lines dripping with mock indignation. It helped, faced with a competent opponent on the battlefield as they were, for once. Gods, what a difference it made. Harren had been a despised tyrant and Mern had been a pompous idiot. With his allies in a rout, Loren had no options but to bend. Orys really hoped Torrhen Stark bent the knee. It would avoid so much strife, before he inevitably fell.

“I know it’s a slim hope”, Orys asked his sister, one last thing on his mind. If it did not prove true, at least they could share another reminiscent chuckle. “But please tell me that Torrhen was in this case as stupid as Mern and brought all his heirs with him to die to a dragon raid.”

A cute snort was his reply, before it was followed with a little elaboration.

“We can’t expect such luck more than once. Gods, what an idiot, wasn’t he? No, Torrhen’s three trueborn brothers are back in the North, in different castles to boot. Those are saddled with wives and kids all ready as well, so we’d be hard pressed to destabilize the North like we did the Reach. He’s got one bastard brother with him and more such siblings waiting at home. No opening there either, seems his family so far has an almost fanatical devotion towards him.”

“What about a wife and children of his own?”

Orys saw Visenya flinch at the question. A love match, then. His sister still carried her scars. Orys remembered it like it was yesterday, the day his brother married both his sisters. Their father had been dead not for long then and in Valaena Velaryon’s eyes her son could do no wrong. So in the night when his sister came crying and limping because Aegon had broken her maidenhead to spoil her for all others and then left her for another room with Rhaenys, Orys had held her until she cried herself to sleep. Orys knew she yearned for children, and knew she was unlikely to ever beget them. Her voice when she spoke again was, therefore, barely a whisper.

“He’s been focused on ruling the first years and ensured his succession through his brothers. That has changed last year. He’s been courting a Freya Mormont. His betrothed now rides with him into war, one of his closest advisors. Her coat of arms is the black bear in the forest. There set to marry next year.”

Orys hated to see her like this, defeated. Better to change the subject, and fast.

“Who are the other important banners? His other advisors?”

“The names of the Houses are there. Karstarks, Umbers, Dustins, Ryswells and Cerwyns bring in a large part of the forces. You can expect a few of those Lords in his council, but they matter little save for troop numbers. The second strongest House of the North is House Bolton; they wear the flayed man. They’re the villains in many a cautionary tale in the Riverlands, but as long as you’re not captured, the only important think to know about them is their host size. House Manderly, the green-haired merman, is responsible for the sole contingent of knights. They might have contacts with some of the Reach houses at the front, but those are luckily not privy to any military information of ours.”

Scarce information, though even Orys had heard of both Boltons and Manderlys. Visenya talked on.

“As to his closer friends and advisors, there’s House Reed, the lizard lion biting its tail. Roald Reed leads their elusive stealth battalion. They’ve been feuding with the Freys for three centuries now but still the worthless weasels cannot tell us much about them. You know of House Mormont. They are the House fielding rumored skinchangers, though their forces are small. Finally, there’s Torrhen’s right hand man, his bastard brother Brandon Snow. Fiercely loyal, angry like most bastards and a mystery in all information that matters. Seven years Torrhen’s junior and had of a small contingent without clear designation. Little to go off, but ask the Mallisters and Freys for more. They might help.”

Orys knew a dismissal when he heard it. The hurt still shone in his sister’s eyes. He rose with a sigh and bid his sister goodbye until they would reconvene for the parley in an hour.

“I’ll talk to the Lords, Nya. I hope you’re right about the King of Winter. That he’s a good man. That he bends before we break him.”

With that, Orys Baratheon closed the tent flap behind him and strode towards the banners of bridges and birds to the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got way larger than ever intended.  
Aegon's character descriptions always kept me wondering, what went on in this guys head?
> 
> I've settled for a kind of incest induced megalomania. And general assholery.  
Maegor only got made when Aenys help took a dive after Rhaenys died. Think on that.
> 
> Also, FYI, here's the age of the named characters as of yet.  
I'm not sure I'll put up all ages for all characters in the future, but expect at least some.  
The old guard is dead or dying across the realm and the young blood is stepping up.  
Torrhen Stark: 25  
Brandon Snow: 18  
Freya Mormont: 23  
Roald Reed: 24  
Karlon Karstark: 41  
Harlon Umber: 39  
Bert Bolton: 32  
Walter Manderly: 50
> 
> Aegon Targaryen: 26  
Visenya Targaryen: 27  
Rhaenys Targaryen: 24  
Orys Baratheon: 24  
Argella Durrandon: 16  
Crispian Celtigar: 39  
Triston Massey: 35  
Edwyn Tully: 33  
Loren I Lannister: 44  
Arstan Swann: 29  
Dune Connington: 34  
Solomon Tarth: 37


End file.
